MM
by Verbs Everywhere
Summary: Sherlock returns to Baker Street to find out who's really behind Moriarty's return. Series 4 prediction.
1. Part 1: John

The door of 221B stood slightly ajar as John Watson made the familiar climb up the stairs, noting the stream of dim light from within. He rapped on the frame, waited, then tentatively pushed the door open.

The room was, to say the least, a wreck. Had John only been gone for a week? Everything from books to plates to socks had been left where it fell—on the floor, on the mantle, on John's chair. He wondered if poor Mrs. Hudson had seen this. He'd hate to see the look on her face when she did.

The door was caught on a wrinkled sheet, but John forced it open enough to enter the room, and there was Sherlock—sitting at the table, head bowed, unmistakably asleep. The only light in the room was from a table lamp and the glow of his laptop.

"Sherlock." John shook his friend's shoulder. "Sherlock—hey."

"Mm—" Sherlock woke up, blinking. He looked up. "What were you saying?"

"I didn't—Looks like you fell asleep."

"'Course I haven't. Why would I fall asleep in the middle of a case?" He turned his attention back to the computer screen. John saw he was scrolling through a forum thread titled _I think DYMM could be ITV hoax?_

"You're keeping busy with the investigation, then?"

"Yes, I—oh," he added self-consciously, looking at the mess as if he hadn't noticed. "Yes, I've been keeping busy. I can't remember the last time I had a case that demanded this much focus, it's so…" He stopped reading, looked up and, for the first time, seemed surprised to see John. "Sorry, what are you doing here?"

"I came by to give you this." John fished a flash drive out of his pocket and set it on the table. "It's your brother's. He says it's—"

"Mycroft sent this?"

"Yes, and he says it's all the files he has on Moriarty. This stuff goes back years, before you and I ever met him. He seemed to think it would help."

"'Course he did, no doubt he expects me to be grateful he's lending his expertise for a change…" But Sherlock plugged the flash drive into the laptop.

"And I had a word with him about the other thing …" John's eyes fell on a newspaper clipping on the table. A government vault broken into late last night, a message emblazoned across the windows in red paint: _DID YOU MISS ME_

Sherlock glanced at the clipping. "Certainly took them long enough. Sloppy work, if you ask me."

"How?"

"We know someone went to a lot of trouble to convince us they were Moriarty." He tapped the clipping. "This is not Moriarty—and even if it were, he wouldn't bother putting his name to it. He was never in it for the money; that wasn't his _style_."

 _And you would know_ , John thought, but he could tell this wasn't the time. "Right. It's been a week—what else have you got?"

"Nothing."

" _Nothing_?"

"Well—information. Disparate. I don't know what it means—not yet." Sherlock nodded to the opposite wall. John saw he'd hung up a map dotted with pins and a few newspaper clippings, mostly related to the front-page news that had started it all: Moriarty's reappearance.

John looked closely at the map. "Nothing's connected," he observed.

"Every screen in the country. Not much of a pattern."

"A heat map wouldn't tell you anything."

"Right."

Then John realized there was one story that hadn't made it to the wall yet. "What about this vault thing? I mean, do you think it was the same person?"

"It makes sense if it is. I had a word with Lestrade. The level of security and the ease with which it was breached suggests an inside job, so they're questioning people who knew the passcodes and alarm information. Problem is, there's no one person who had all the information you would have needed to break in. Which suggests that someone knew his way around all those people. And someone would have had to know their way around a lot of people to make _that_ happen in one week." He stabbed a finger at the wall without looking up. "We know Moriarty could get to people. People are easy if you know what you're doing."

"But you don't think it was Moriarty."

"No. Like I said, he would have the means and not the motive, unless he needed the money for some reason, to pay someone off maybe, in which case..." He trailed off.

John was about to excuse himself when something occurred to him. "What do you mean, 'one week'?"

"Hm?"

"You said the person who did the screens only had a week. What makes you think they were only working on it for—?"

"Since I killed Magnussen, yes."

John unshouldered his coat. "Why?"

Sherlock looked at him blankly. "Why what?"

John sighed. "Just back up. Why do you think they've only been working on it since Magnussen died?"

"I _know_ they've only been working on it since then because my brother called me _four minutes_ into my exile to Eastern Europe and told me my greatest enemy was back from the dead. Think about it, John."

"You're saying this wasn't a coincidence?"

"Four minutes after the plane took off? Do you think it _was_?"

"So whoever did this was trying to bring you back?"

"They would have had a week to prepare, which could be enough time if they had the right connections in place already, so we're looking for someone in a position of power, the power to put Moriarty's face on every screen in the country, and they used that power to stop my exile. Why? Who'd go to all that trouble to help _me_?"

"I can think of a few people."

Sherlock typed a reply to the thread, then sighed, exasperated. "Moriarty, John, back from the dead. Do you know many people who could have done that? Well, of course," he added reflectively, "it would have taken nothing less, what with me being a murderer and all."

"Sherlock, you're not—"

"Don't." Sherlock didn't lift his gaze from the laptop.

John tried again. "Sherlock, you did what had to be done, okay?" He watched him for a response and got none. "All right, Magnussen was going to…destroy us, and Mary, so really it was—"

"It was murder, John; it was an assassination. If it had to be done then why didn't you do it?" He keyed in a URL and punched the Enter key a little too violently. "You were closer to him; I'm sure you could have killed him faster and with a lot less _melodrama_."

"I didn't think…" John trailed off, but he could see Sherlock wasn't expecting a response, so he stayed watching him. It occurred to him how strange his friend looked—his eyes darting back and forth, the white glow of the laptop washing the color from his face, the tabletop an island of light in the cluttered space they'd once shared.

"Does it bother you?

"Hm?" Sherlock continued reading.

"You're saying whoever did all this stopped your exile, saved your life. Does that bother you?"

"Should it?"

 _And here comes the tricky part,_ John thought with some irritation, because the trouble with Sherlock was that for someone who enjoyed the sound of his own voice that much, if he didn't want to talk about something, he wasn't going to talk about it nine times out of ten. But because he was starting to worry and because he didn't have anything better to do, John decided to bank on the one.

"Well, they committed an act of terrorism. Probably the vault robbery too. And now you want to put them behind bars? The person who saved your life?"

Sherlock was typing something. He didn't look up.

"Or are you not worried about that right now?"

After a few more keystrokes, Sherlock's fingers came to a rest. He stared into the screen for a moment, then stood up. "All right."

John stepped over a few chess pieces before moving the clutter from his chair. He took a seat, and Sherlock did the same.

Sherlock clasped his hands in front of his face. "It's no use. I need a second opinion."

"What about?"

"Our supposed Moriarty, the person who did all this, just—You know as much as I do. What can you tell me about them? Anything you've got."

"Well, like you said, it's someone powerful. And someone who wants to protect you, for some reason."

"Yes, and…?" he said impatiently.

"And someone who's not bound by…" John shrugged. "Conventional morality?"

"Conventional morality?" Sherlock laughed. "I thought moral people called that 'morality.'"

"They did it to protect you; I don't think they—" John struggled a moment with the words "—did the wrong thing, necessarily."

Sherlock's eyes flashed up. "It was justified, then? You think so?"

"I think so, yeah." It was the truth, but John didn't know whether it was the answer Sherlock wanted. He couldn't imagine where this was going.

"And what happens next? If people start getting hurt, is it still going to be worth me being back?"

"We'll solve it. We always do—"

"If people _die_ , is it going to be worth it?"

Now John was really worried. It wasn't like Sherlock to ask these kinds of what-if questions. Surely the self-styled sociopath wouldn't waste time worrying about whether he ought to be happy that Moriarty was back.

Even John hadn't spent too much time on it, but there was a reason for that. He knew he was glad Sherlock was back safe—whatever else happened. He knew, selfishly, that it wasn't (as he'd pretended to himself for a bit) because of the balance of good that Sherlock was capable of given a long and happy life. No, that wasn't why he was glad his friend had survived. But Sherlock had just asked a question John had stopped short of answering to himself. And he didn't want to answer it now.

"Sherlock, what do you want me to say?"

Sherlock stood abruptly and turned back to the computer. "Actually, you know what? Never mind."

"Sherlock—"

"I don't _want_ you to say anything." Sherlock pulled up a chair and sat back down. "It was a question, and if you don't want to answer it that's fine, but then you should probably leave me to my work."

"Right." John stood up and pulled his coat back on. "I'll just leave then, why wouldn't I, I've only left Mary at home…I was only trying to help."

"I appreciate you _trying_ ," Sherlock said coldly.

John tried to ignore this remark as he took one last look at the pins on the wall. As he did, his gaze fell on something he hadn't noticed before: a clipping pinned awkwardly, the pushpin jammed into the wall at an angle, forcefully, reflecting a moment of frustration…

 _Something's not right,_ John thought as he turned back to look at Sherlock, who was once again absorbed in the laptop screen, dead to the world was how it seemed. And John knew Sherlock would eventually come around and would let John help him with the case, but there would be no talking to him tonight, not when he'd decided that he didn't need any help, and John knew he should just walk out without another word, but something wasn't right and he had to say something even if it wouldn't make any difference because making a difference wasn't the point.

"Sherlock…When…and if—you decide you want my help…just let me know, all right?"

Sherlock inhaled sharply, and John prepared himself for the parting shot he knew was coming, but it didn't come. Sherlock didn't look up from the computer, but something changed in his eyes, and John had the unaccountable thought that his friend was about to tell him something important.

What he said was, "I will."


	2. Part 2: Sherlock

The room was still and dark, with only the table lamp and the lights outside lifting the darkness and only the flash drive to show that John had been there.

Sherlock was dozing off at the computer, tired in his mind and in his body, but he wouldn't even think of going to bed. His thoughts were still humming away—not in sequence, not running through information systematically as they should, but repeating the same handful of points over and over and not getting him anywhere.

And even when his own thoughts went quiet, there was always the voice in the back of his head—a familiar voice droning on with words that he couldn't make out except for a phrase here and there: "balance of probability," and "brother mine."

"Why can't you just leave me alone?" he asked the walls.

As if he needed Mycroft to drive home how spectacularly badly he was handling this case. That was the gist of it, anyway—his older brother telling him how stupid he was because wasn't it _obvious_ …

No, it wasn't obvious, because the rules of the game had changed. They'd changed when Sherlock Holmes shot an unarmed man in the head at point-blank range. And he'd realized, with some surprise, that _murderer_ was just a word and that sometimes it was a word to describe someone making good on a vow to protect his friends no matter what. He didn't need anyone to justify his actions to him. Least of all John.

Sherlock had asked his questions for a reason. At some point, if things got much worse, Sherlock's life wasn't going to be worth Moriarty's return. Sherlock didn't know when that would be, but he'd liked to think John would know. Sherlock was sorry he'd been rude earlier. It had seemed like the only way to get John to leave, the only way to get him to stop answering questions Sherlock had suddenly realized he didn't want answered.

"You're not actually distracted by all this, are you?"

The voice rang out clearer than before, as if someone had actually spoken. Sherlock looked toward the sound of the voice, and there was Mycroft, appearing as Sherlock's mind expected to see him—sitting in Sherlock's chair, hand on his umbrella, looking substantial about the waist and more than a little contemptuous.

"Why are you here?"

Mycroft tilted his head back. "You know why I'm here."

"What does that _mean_?"

"The rules of the game have changed, little brother, and your heart is rejecting what your brain already knows. Or haven't you been paying attention? Falling asleep like that, your increasing lack of focus—Your system is turning against itself. I told you once that caring wasn't an advantage. Thank you _very_ much for proving me right."

"Well, if we're talking about caring," Sherlock began, but he knew Mycroft had a point. All in all, he was functioning at about the level he'd expect to if he were being inhibited by something in his subconscious.

Sherlock took a seat in John's chair. "All right. Let's say you're right. Why would you care about that? And why are you here? You didn't just come here to gloat."

"No, I came here to help. You know you need me. The fact that I'm here at all proves that. Do you know why it's me, Sherlock, why it's _always_ me?"

"Of course I do," he mumbled. He was thinking about John and how he'd told him he wanted to be alone, and yet here he was talking to a mental version of his brother.

"John can't help you—and he won't now, not after you pushed him away like that. If you want him on your side, you're going to have to be _nice_." Mycroft twirled his umbrella contemplatively. "They're always a bit high-maintenance, aren't they? The ordinary people."

"Well, so are we."

"No, Sherlock; so are _you_." His tone was hard and his face had that look Sherlock hated—the look that said _you know I'm right; you're just to stubborn to admit it_ , which was usually an annoyingly correct assessment. "You act like one of them, but we're still more alike than you care to admit."

"Well, maybe I don't want to be," Sherlock spat, and then he realized the absurdity of his situation. He wasn't the high-functioning sociopath he'd been six years ago—that was obvious—but he'd thought he could change just enough without losing who he was. Instead he was caught in the middle—too human for his brother and still too machine for John.

Mycroft dropped his gaze. "Sherlock, has it occurred to you that maybe you're having trouble catching your criminal because you've forgotten how to think like he does? This whole business of turning criminal to protect you—Well, it's not exactly something out of Dr. Watson's book, is it?"

" _Dr. Watson_ doesn't have an opinion on the matter."

"Really?" Mycroft smiled. "Well, thank goodness for that."

Mycroft stood and advanced toward Sherlock. He reached into his coat, and Sherlock saw that he had something in his pocket.

Sherlock flexed his hands nervously. "You're wrong about me, just so you know. I understand all that. I know sometimes you have to do something…something you didn't think you could do. Or don't you remember what I did to Magnussen?"

"Yes. That was a knee-jerk decision that revealed who you really are. If you're going to find an explanation for Moriarty's return, you're going to have to find that man again. The man who'll do whatever it takes to protect the people he cares about. Even if it isn't particularly nice."

He pulled a book out of his coat pocket and held it out to Sherlock. Sherlock didn't have to look at the title to know what it was. The cover was green and hardback and worn, the cover of a book that was older than either of them and had been read many, many times.

It had been years at least since Sherlock had thought about this. His heart was beating faster as he took the book from Mycroft and looked at the title. It was a short story compilation: _The Adventures of Detective Dupin_ , by Edgar Allan Poe. The book had been a fixture in their childhood home for as long as Sherlock could remember, but it wasn't until he was about seven years old that it found its way into his bedroom, his schoolbag and his heart.

 _He was a bright child—not yet the deductive savant he would become but studious for that age and endlessly curious. Reading was his latest pastime—during his free time, in class; anytime he was feeling bored—and one day, when he was looking for something new, his mother had handed him this well-worn book of detective stories._

 _By his second time reading it, people were noticing and were starting to talk—the younger Holmes boy who always had his face buried in_ The Adventures of Detective Dupin. _The older boy must have noticed (Sherlock had forgotten his name a long time ago) before he'd snatched it away in the courtyard, and Sherlock had screamed and slapped and reached as high as his arms could go, but the boy laughed, held the book just out of reach and then ran away, and Sherlock didn't know what to do._

 _He didn't mean to tell anyone. He hoped he would find some way to get the book back before his mother found out. At dinner, something must have shown on his face because she asked him if he was all right. He said he was, and she hadn't pursued the matter. He was good at hiding his feelings, even then. But the one person he couldn't lie to was Mycroft._

 _That was how he ended up after dinner in Mycroft's room, teary-eyed, explaining how their mother's book was gone and there was nothing he could do and how powerless he'd felt against the older boy. The brothers didn't get on well as a rule, and Sherlock was worried Mycroft would tease him too. Instead, he'd listened quietly until the story was finished and then told Sherlock to go to his own room and to stop worrying about the book._

 _The next afternoon, Sherlock was in his room when he heard a commotion down the hall. He put his ear to the door and listened. He heard his father's voice and Mycroft's, and there was trouble—Mycroft had been suspended; something about fighting with a younger boy. His father didn't sound angry so much as confused, and rightfully so because Mycroft rarely got in trouble at school and he never fought anybody. For his part, Mycroft didn't elaborate on the incident except to say that he was sorry for the trouble and he'd try not to make a habit of it._

 _Moments later, there was a knock at Sherlock's door. It was Mycroft. Sherlock didn't mention what he'd heard, and Mycroft didn't bring it up. Instead, he handed Sherlock the worn old book and told him to keep a better grip on it next time. And after Mycroft closed the door behind him, Sherlock stood there a minute, staring at the door, his heart swelling at this unexpected act of love._

" _That is who we are, Sherlock. No matter what, for the right person—whatever it takes…"_

Sherlock awoke with a start in the empty flat. As he sat up, his gaze fell on the chair across from him. Mycroft was gone. Apparently he'd said all he needed to say.

Sherlock stared for a moment, then broke into quiet laughter. "Oh," he said, "you—you…"

Now more than ever, he was sorry he'd been rude to John, because only now were the pieces falling into place. If John hadn't given his approval to their Moriarty, probably Sherlock wouldn't have entertained the possibility that Moriarty's supposed return had been orchestrated by someone so close to him, someone with the best of intentions, the only person with the means and the motive to save Sherlock's life.

But _Mycroft?_

He'd hidden it well if it was him, and Sherlock wasn't saying it was. He tried to think back to that phone call when Mycroft had told him the exile was off, how he'd acted when they'd talked on the plane. He hadn't seemed particularly surprised by any of it—but then, that was Mycroft. He wasn't one to show his hand.

And if he'd cared much that his little brother wasn't going off to certain death after all, he certainly hadn't let on. Just a smart _Well, I certainly hope you've learned your lesson_ and a quick explanation. That was all right. That was how they communicated. And naturally, Sherlock hadn't replied with anything warmer than _Who needs me this time?_

 _England._

Sherlock stumbled on the word. It stood out to him like a signpost. It reminded him of something that he almost remembered. Something that had happened recently but also so long ago…

He crossed to his own chair, sat down, closed his eyes and imagined himself sitting there in 1895. He remembered, as clearly as if it had really happened, being there with the other John and the other Mary and the other Mycroft…

The goal had been to find possible explanations for how a person who had shot himself in the head could apparently still be alive, and most of the details had been oriented to that. But then there had been that business of Mary working secretly with Mycroft. What was that about? Sherlock hadn't been there when it happened, not the other version of himself, but he remembered Mary getting the card with the mysterious mark of the letter M—she didn't even tell Mrs. Hudson where she was going; when the landlady had asked who it was who needed her, she'd just said…

 _England_.

The connection rang out in Sherlock's mind: _Mycroft is the British government. Mycroft—England._ Mycroft had told him his heart was rejecting what his brain already knew, and apparently his brain had figured it out a long time ago. In his drug-induced state, he'd interpreted Mycroft's response—whether he'd intended it that way or not—as a royal synechdoche.

 _England needs you, Sherlock. I need you._

And suddenly Sherlock realized that he really was very tired and that he should probably get some sleep. There was much more work to be done—certainly he'd have to investigate some more to determine whether it really was Mycroft—but now he could rest because he understood, and it was all right. And even if it wasn't Mycroft, it would have to be someone like him, like Sherlock—someone like…

Sherlock paused halfway down the hallway. He was getting that feeling again, that feeling of almost remembering. He thought about the mark of the letter M on the calling card for Mary, and there was something else, too, something he'd seen in the other place…

"Miss me?"

Then he remembered completely. It flashed before his eyes, the note that had been tied to the sword in the victim's chest— _Miss me?_ The original phrase was _Did you miss me?_ —he'd known it at the time; Mycroft had explained—but in the dream it was shortened: two words, two letter M's harmonizing with the mark on the calling card, spelling out a truth he couldn't let himself know because it was too terrible unless you looked at it from the right perspective.

 _MISS ME_

 _M.M._

M for Moriarty…or M for Mycroft?


	3. Part 3: Mycroft

Mycroft Holmes was sitting in his study at the Diogenes Club, reviewing his own hard copy of the documents he'd entrusted to John. It was an ordinary morning that became decidedly less so when he got the news that Sherlock had come to visit.

"Sorry," he said to the servant, "did you say Sherlock Holmes is _here_?"

"Yes, sir."

"Did he mention why?"

"He said—He said he wanted to thank his brother in person for his kind help yesterday."

 _Uh-oh_. "Send him in."

Mycroft wasn't quite done mourning the loss of peace and quiet when Sherlock came bounding in. "Mycroft! Sorry for not calling ahead, but I knew you'd be here. Nothing like a familiar haunt when you're dealing with a national crisis."

"The _door_ , Sherlock."

As Sherlock closed the door, Mycroft noticed that his brother's good spirits belied some obvious signs of stress and overwork. His eyes told Mycroft he wasn't getting much rest—probably not regular hours either, going by the state of his hair.

"Is the investigation going well?"

"Immensely," Sherlock said with a note of self-deprecation.

"I see you're making a real effort with this one."

"Am I?" Sherlock caught sight of his reflection in the window and ruffled his hair self-consciously. "I suppose so."

He seemed more distracted than usual. Mycroft was secretly glad that at least one of them was anxious to tackle this case, even if his little brother's gusto was currently keeping him from more important things. "Have you learned anything yet? It's been a week."

"I know it's been a week. Why does everyone keep reminding me?"

"Can I take that as a no, then?"

"You know everything I do, Mycroft." His frustration was palpable. "There's a lot of information to consider. It's too early to settle on any one theory."

"But you have theories, then?"

"Oh yes."

"I'm glad to hear it. For a moment there, I thought you were going to make me regret getting you that pardon."

"Regret? I don't think you'd dream of that." Sherlock helped himself to a handful of peanuts from the crystal bowl on Mycroft's desk. "I was expecting a thank you, at the very least."

"Thank you?"

"Yes, like that. I did only get rid of a man who had half your people under his thumb."

"Sherlock," Mycroft began, but he could feel his blood pressure rising, so he pinched the bridge of his nose and waited.

"Sherlock," he continued, "you blew a man's brains out after I specifically asked you to leave him alone. I think you can understand why I would be a little cross about that."

"But you are secretly pleased."

"Months of careful diplomacy going out in a blaze of gunfire—"

"I did you a favor, Mycroft; you know it and I know—"

"Oh, grow up." Mycroft knew Sherlock had a point, but he still could have strangled his brother for his rash interference. "You've no idea, Sherlock, all the trouble you caused by deciding to play the action hero, leaving me to clean up your…"

He lost his train of thought when he noticed the way Sherlock was looking at him. He knew that look—intense focus, to the point of overextertion, with the gleam of a child's curiosity that hadn't changed in all these years. You could always tell when Sherlock was trying to figure something out.

 _How much does he know?_ The great downside of being smarter than Sherlock was that Mycroft found it annoyingly difficult to predict what his little brother would and wouldn't notice. This meant that outsmarting him was tricky, but Mycroft usually found that it was possible. Usually.

Mycroft gave Sherlock his emptiest smile. "I sent Dr. Watson over with some of my files. I trust you've had a chance to look over them."

"Oh, yes, thank you; I'm sure that'll be useful. Of course," he added, "it's only useful insofar as the real mastermind actually knows about them."

"Sorry?"

"Oh, come on, Mycroft. You and I both know Moriarty isn't actually back. We saw his image, and that's all it is—an image, a smokescreen. Someone is going to great lengths to pretend to be Moriarty, which is why if they know about this—" he thumped the stack of papers on Mycroft's desk "—it's going to get a lot easier for me to predict their next move."

Mycroft pulled the documents away defensively. "Is that so?"

"Yes. They'll do whatever they expect Moriarty to do. The thing is—" Sherlock was pacing a bit, glancing around the study "—even if I don't know who's behind all this, I know a bit about them."

 _He must know it's not a coincidence,_ Mycroft thought suddenly. "Such as?"

"Our mastermind may have used Moriarty's image, but it still has a personal touch to it. A flair for the dramatic—I don't have to explain that to you…"

"Power and self-assurance. I don't have to explain that to _you_."

"Power—yes, of course, he'd have to be powerful to pull off something like that—"

" _He_ , Sherlock?"

"But—yes, obviously—but he didn't do it alone, not by a long shot."

"Mm," Mycroft agreed as he busied himself with the documents.

"No?" he said as he suddenly realized he should be interested by that.

"Every screen in the country? Every television, every CCTV camera, every light-up billboard? That takes a lot of connections…extensive knowledge of criminal networks. No, I'm not dealing with only one person; that…that would be simple. No, you need to imagine an ant pile, a lot of ants in a lot of different tunnels all reporting back to the…No, not ants." Sherlock stopped his pacing and looked thoughtful. "Termites."

"Is this a very important insect metaphor, Sherlock?"

"I was going to say—" his tone was insistent "—termites reporting back to the _queen_."

Mycroft laughed to himself. So this was why Sherlock had interrupted his morning—to rattle off ideas and pretend like he had the first idea of what was going on. Then he imagined the termite network and the queen termite sitting on a termite throne and for some reason he had a thought about how his diet wasn't going all that well.

"Well—" he was starting to wonder what gave Sherlock the right, anyway, to come in here with his ramblings and his insect metaphors "—I'm sorry you're not getting any help from Dr. Watson."

"Did he tell you that?"

"You told me that. You wouldn't be here if you had anyone…more agreeable to discuss things with."

"So I couldn't just be here because I value your expertise?"

"No, Sherlock, because we both know you value your friends more than you value my…expertise."

Sherlock stopped pacing. "Is that what you think of me?"

Mycroft hummed noncommittally and went back to his documents. How foolish he'd been, he now realized, to worry that Sherlock had worked it out. It was a simple case of projecting: Mycroft tended to assume that Sherlock was still more like him than not, when in reality his little brother was probably more preoccupied with whatever had happened with Dr. Watson than he was with the case.

Mycroft looked up and saw that Sherlock was standing near his desk. Suddenly he found his brother's presence more than usually obnoxious. He sighed heavily. "Can I _help_ you, Sherlock?"

"I'm not worried, you know. I'll work it out."

"Of course you will," Mycroft replied with every ounce of condescension he could muster.

"It's not me I'm worried about," Sherlock continued. "No, I'm worried about the _queen_."

"What, the mastermind?"

"The criminals need their Moriarty—he'll give them that presence they don't have on their own, that coordination…help them out with a little government vault, I shouldn't wonder…but they'll only leave the queen in power as long as he's acting in their best interests, as long as he's _acting_ like Moriarty. So you see, he'll have to keep working with them. If he tries to abandon them, they'll turn on him. So, really, is the network working for the queen or is it the other way around?"

They were eye to eye now, Sherlock leaning on the desk, but Mycroft couldn't bring himself to be annoyed at this invasion of his personal space. He was thinking about the people he'd met with behind closed doors, bribing, bargaining, blackmailing—whatever it took for him to get the help he needed. The vault had been a necessary sacrifice, and it was just the beginning. He'd always known there would be trouble to follow, but what difference did that make? He intended to take care of it—in his own time and on his own terms.

But now Sherlock _knew_. Of course Mycroft had expected him to figure it out eventually, had planned for it, but frankly, he's expected to have more time. Time Sherlock would spend chasing after the usual suspects—masterminds and criminals. Surely his own brother would be at the bottom of that list.

All these thoughts passed through Mycroft's mind in the space of a few seconds, and then it occurred to him that Sherlock was waiting for a response. "Well," he said, "well, does it really matter at this point?"

Sherlock searched Mycroft's face. "You have connections. I know you keep tabs on people like Moriarty and Magnussen. You know people who are out there in the shadows, waiting for opportunity to strike…"

"Sherlock—"

"Will you help me?"

"Help you?" Mycroft was trying to remember the last time Sherlock had asked for his help.

"I need to find the network. Anything you know—will you help me? Anything at all."

There was that look again—that curiosity. What was Sherlock trying to work out now? Probably whether Mycroft knew the game was up. Mycroft almost wanted to tell him, but he couldn't, not yet, and he certainly couldn't do what Sherlock was asking. The detective had hit the nail on the head: Mycroft was working for the network, and right now that meant keeping his brother from finding out who had helped him. For now, they would have to be on opposite sides.

"I'm afraid," Mycroft said carefully, "that won't be possible."

Sherlock straightened up. "I see."

That was it. No pressure, no veiled threats—just disappointment. Sherlock turned to Mycroft's bookshelf, hiding his face.

"Sherlock," Mycroft said against his better judgment.

"Mm?"

"If anything changes, I'll let you know."

"Of course you will," Sherlock said absently as his fingers traced the spine on one of Mycroft's books. Mycroft couldn't read the title from where he was. It was an old hardback. He thought he might have gotten it from their parents' house.

"I know you'll help me," he continued. "I remember what you said to me, that you'd always be there…"

"I will."

"…that you'll always protect me, whatever it takes…"

Mycroft nodded slowly. "Did I say that?"

Sherlock turned to his brother with a half-smile. "I think so, yes."

Mycroft didn't know what had changed. Maybe nothing had, apart from his own perception. But as he looked at Sherlock's face, suddenly it was like he was looking into a mirror. Not just because he knew what Mycroft had done, but because he understood why. Mycroft knew his little brother would do his best to expose him, and he wouldn't expect anything less. But at that moment, he was sure that Sherlock understood what he had done, that he approved, that he would have done the same for him because maybe they weren't so different after all.

"Anyway," Sherlock said, "I should be going. I need to speak to John about something."

"Take care."

"Likewise."

As soon as the door closed behind Sherlock, Mycroft went back to reviewing his files. Plans would have to change now. He would have to try and stay a step ahead of his brother. And for the first time, Mycroft felt like he had a worthy adversary.


End file.
